


The Shieldmaidens of Erebor

by madame_faust



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Ending, Gen, Women Being Awesome, no one you love dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 09:48:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madame_faust/pseuds/madame_faust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU BotFA, based on a prompt from the Hobbit Kink Meme - "How about, when in the heat of battle Thorin realizes that they are outnumbered and he is injured and his dear boys are likely going to be killed because they just won't leave him, he hears the horn echoing from the distance. He thinks at first it is a fruit of his pain-clouded mind, but no- it echoes again, and with the first rays of the sun he sees- a small army of dwarves on the hill top, charging to their aid.</p><p>It is Dis and her female dwarves, who upon receiving news about Erebor (from Erlond) refused to sit and wait and decided to act. "</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shieldmaidens of Erebor

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer - I don't own any of this, I'm making no profit from it. 
> 
> Some of Thorin's dialogue is lifted directly from _The Hobbit_ by J.R.R. Tolkien and another sentence was taken from the Wikipedia entry about the Norse shieldmaiden Hervor. 
> 
> The original kink meme prompt and post can be read here: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/2235.html?thread=2872507#t2872507
> 
> ETA- Now in podfic form! Read by **kalakirya** , get it here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/728022

Dwarf-women had not seen battle since the rule of Dáin I, in the days when Durin's Folk still ruled the Grey Mountains. Their numbers, even in those days, were few and their names were rarely recorded in the annals, nor did they reach the ears of Elves or Men. When they did, as in many things, these fierce warriors were taken to be dwarf men. Even among the Elves, so old and wise, it could scarce be believed that a scant dozen dwarrow-maidens felled the great dragon Thorog – and lived to hear the story of their exploits pass into legend.  
  
The exiled dwarves of Erebor believed the tales; their mothers and grandmothers may still hold memories of those fine ladies, brilliant in their armor, leading charges against goblins, orcs and cold-drakes many, many years ago. Before King Thrór decreed that no more should their battle-axes glint in the sunlight. No more should the fall of their boots and echoes of their war-cries resound past the halls of the Lonely Mountain. Their King reasoned that women were so few among their numbers, sending yet more into battle when they had so many able warrior was a fruitless waste of lives. There was honor, to be sure, in staying close to home, raising fine sons to go into the mines and forges and fields of battle and some even believed the decree wise. Yet there were many who believed that pronouncement was a sign of their King's dragon-sickness and boded ill for their people. _Does our King now hoard women as he hoards his gold?_ the whispers asked.  
  
In earlier ages, these proud shieldmaidens, sisters, mothers, daughters and wives, fought with all the strength and courage of a dozen able-bodied dwarves. They did not shudder at the sight of the enemy on the horizon, did not tremble when a sword was raised against them and did not flinch to see their comrades fall. Their aim was sure, their eyes sharp and their blows deadly as they sweat and bled and died for their kith, kin and home. In those days, for a stranger to remark that he could not tell the women from the men in a great battle was a compliment to their menfolk.  
  
Following the Sack of Erebor by Smaug the Terrible, King Thrór's admonishment against women partaking in battle was strengthened. They lost so many of their people that day, surely to be a wife and mother was a more honorable occupation than bearing the mantle of warrior? No women fought in the Battle of Azanulbizar. The deaths were nearly innumerable, too many to give proper burial too and those remaining were too weak and frightened to reclaim Moria. Victory was bitter as gall for those who survived as they saw the bodies of their sons, husbands and kin consumed in flame. A few of the old women, whose arms still ached for the weight of a battle axe, had the nerve to mutter to one another, _If only **we** had been here, our King would not have lost his head._  
  
Dís, daughter of Thráin, son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain (when there was a Mountain to rule), mourned a grandfather, a brother and a father that day. If she heard the wagging tongues of the old women, she threatened to cut them from their throats for their gross disrespect to the dead – though, deep in a cold chamber of her heart, she could not acknowledge any falsehood in their words.

Perhaps if she was raised as she ought to have been – cossetted from the world, bedecked in gowns worth a king's ransom, her hair and beard alight with woven threads of gold silk – Dís would have hesitated before calling her sister-dwarves to take arms. A lifetime of idleness dulls the fire in the eyes and makes soft the muscles and the will, but Dís had never known idleness. Her memories of glorious Erebor, their shining kingdom were faded, like an old quilt left hanging in the summer sun. Their halls, carved exquisitely from the rock by their forebears might haunt her dreams, the glint of precious gems laid in crowns and scabbards twinkled and grew dark in her mind with the passing of the years.  
  
Her clearest early memories were of running, the smell of smoke and the screams of terror sounding from all corners of their home. If one cared to look closely, they could make out a faint scar under one eye from the hard edge of a diamond pressing into her face as she was carried from Erebor by her mother. The queen had not looked back at their burning, desolated home, nor had she paused to gather up her finest combs. She stopped to take only those things dearest to her on that dreadful day: her young daughter and her own shield, carved of wood and covered in leather, a relic from a time when women had need of such things. That day did battle against their own walls, saving them both both from being struck by falling masonry.  
  
After that, it seemed as if would never stop running. Endless marches across mountains and marshes, looking for work like wandering peasants. Dwarrows of both genders were endlessly fond of their crafts, but not in living memory had Durin's folk worked for their bread. By the time Dís was old enough to shoulder a hammer, she insisted on working with her brothers at the forge. No one protested this; they needed the money desperately. By that time her mother had sold all the jewels she wore that day they fled their home. Though Thorin and Frerin were nearly grown, they were young, their sisters arms were strong as theirs, her skill nearly their equal and the Men with whom they haggled and traded did not realize that they often bartered with a dwarven princess. Dwalin was more fussed by the disrespect than she ever was. Good, hot-tempered Dwalin, who bore her uncomplaining on his back when her childish legs threatened to give out early in their exile, once nearly came to blows with a Man who snapped his fingers for her attention and called her, “Boy.”  
  
Because she was raised amid suffering, Dís was not known to complain. She took their hardships in stride, employed herself as a smith to feed their family when she was of age and did not spend much time brooding over what they had lost. There was no going back as her father and grandfather seemed so set on doing, they could only move forward. When Fate meant for them to retake Erebor, they would. She did not doubt they would reclaim their homeland from that wicked Worm, but they were hungry _now_ , they needed shelter _now_ and none of the remembered gold of her father and grandfather's dreams could put food in their bellies or a roof over their heads.  
  
When her kin died at Azanulbizar, she mourned as so many others did and she taught herself to feel pride that her brother Frerin died a burned dwarf. Nonetheless, knowing he died honorably did not make her miss him less, his quick smile, the feel of a heavy, soot stained arm around her shoulders after a long day's work. Frerin laughed at the Men whose eyes and words demeaned them and winked at the curious lasses who lingered and watched them work – especially when their gazes lay on his sister, who, to their way of thinking, must have been the comeliest dwarf they'd ever seen. Even Thorin, with his sad eyes and serious mien could not reprimand Frerin for his having his fun; his brother was one of only a small group who could make Thorin laugh from his belly, eyes shining and lines of worry disappearing from his face. After his death, Dís and Dwalin were disheartened to find their numbers reduced to two.

In choosing a husband, she found one who reminded her of her brother. That was probably why Thorin never took to him, she would later muse. Her prideful brother did not deny her choice, but in the way of all brothers huffed and rolled his eyes and declared that he was not good enough for her. Although her husband looked nothing like her brother in particulars, with his big fine nose and wild golden hair, in essence they were very much the same. Dís was not looking for a prince with a sword in hand and songs sung in his honor, she only wanted one who could make her laugh. When he died, not gloriously in battle, but in a mining cave-in, the air slowly squeezed from his lungs, Thorin grieved with her once again. Their mother died not long after their father disappeared, grief, it was said, for heartbreak was the hardest and slowest wound of all to heal. Dís did not find that to be true, however. She found work a balm like no other and so she worked, she raised her sons, she looked after her brother (and, like an honorable man, Thorin would tell any who inquired that he lived with his sister and her sons without shame, not like others in their situation who might say they “took in” a poor widowed sister and her children).  
  
Working as a smith was hardly challenge enough for a dwarf-woman, so she took an active role in her sons' military education. Most dwarf-mothers did, it had been so since time immemorial and the practiced had not ceased even under the rule of King Thrór. Dís never sold her mother's shield, not that it would have fetched a price, but to her it was dearer than all the gold in Erebor. Thorin and Dwalin often commented, wistfully and gruffly respectively, that she would have been a fine warrior. Kili inherited her good eyes (though his skill was with a bow rather than an axe) and Fili her ferocity. Both her sons, her beautiful, foolish, brave sons following her foolish, brave brother to their home, would grow to be excellent warriors -  
  
 _If_ they were able to grow up, mind.  
  
Gossip travels on light wings, even in the mountains, and quickly word reached the exiled children of Erebor that Dáin Ironfoot was gathering an army to stand with Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain against the might of Men and Elves who sought to gain the treasure of their homeland. Dís, at first, was outraged at the insult. Men, in whose lands and under whose suspicious eyes her people toiled for decades to earn their table scraps thought they had a right to their gold? And Elves, who so callously turned away and did not dirty their lily-white hands laid claims to their gems and rubies, mined with their sweat and defended by their blood? But Dís was a practical woman and when new rumors flew about Orcs and wargs, the certainty of a bloodbath, a second Azanulbizar (on Durin's grave, say it is not so!), she intuitively knew that somehow, this was her magnificent, mule-headed brother's fault.  
  
Wryly thinking to herself that perhaps Thorin neglected to remember that she was responsible for producing another set of heirs for him if her sons fell (and joking about it, even to herself, made her heart clench less in fear), Dís knew this was not a time to remain cloistered, as her grandfather wished it. Looking to the past for wisdom was all well and good, but gaining wisdom from the mistakes of one's kin was better still. Though she might not be King Under the Mountain, Dís was still of Durin's line and when she spoke, her people listened. And her sisters in arms answered her call to battle.

* * *

The Battle of the Five Armies, as it came to be known, was already underway by the time the dwarf-women arrived. All was in chaos, but though many a heart lurched and dozens of anxious eyes scanned the field looking for husbands, brothers and sons among the fighting and fallen, not a face blanched, nor did a hand tremble.  
  
The names of these brave women warriors were not recorded in the annals of history. Later generations would go on to curse their historians' lack of foresight. _One hundred dwarf women fought in the Battle of the Five Armies and we do not know a ** _single_** name?_  
  
Different families would claim an aunt or grandmother had been one of those who so skillfully wrenched victory for their people from the hands of defeat, but few knew for sure. The women who fought did not do so for accolades, they did not expect songs to be written about them and sung to inspire courage in battle. They fought for their families and they fought for their land. What worthier cause was there than that?  
  
When Thorin Oakenshield heard the unmistakable sound of a dwaven horn let out a battle cry that was bold, unfamiliar and _right_ all at once, he is momentarily convinced that he is dead and his has already been called by Mahal to rest with his father and grandfather. It is only the reality of the hard ground against his back and the searing pain in his shield-arm which reassured him that though he might well be _dying_ , he was not yet _dead_.  
  
Blinking the blood out of his eyes, he tried to shout to his sister-sons to leave him. When they saw him fall, Fíli and Kíli rushed to his side, outnumbered by orcs, but determined to protect their beloved uncle and king with their lives. It was an honorable thing to die in battle and in the service of one's king, but Thorin in this moment was not a king. He was only a single, wounded dwarf about to watch two of those dearest to him die because of him. Because they trusted him, they went on this suicidal quest – because his sister trusted him, she would never see her sons alive again.  
  
His sister. The thought of her dark blue eyes, too proud to cry, dry and unspeakably sad when she heard of their deaths. “ _Take care of my boys,_ ” she said on the moment of their parting, after she'd braided their hair with clasps of her own making and kissed her sons on the forehead. “ _And take care of yourself,_ ” she'd added, pulling him close in a tight embrace.  
  
“ _The next time we meet will be in the halls of Erebor,_ ” he promised her fiercely, pressing his forehead against her brow.  
  
She smiled at that and remarked lightly, “ _Be sure it is the halls and not the crypts._ ”  
  
Dís, he knew, had few memories of their life before the desolation wrought by the old Worm. Her life had been toil and hardship where it should have been ease and comfort. She wore the clothes of a peasant, yet still had the bearing of a noblewoman. He promised himself that their quest would change all of this, their family would be restored to their rightful place, all that was once would be there again. With his head full of the noise of battle, he could scarcely admit how it had come to this. What of their glorious defeat of the dragon? What of walking proudly into their home and restoring it to its former glory? It seemed so long ago now, that he courted war with those who now proved themselves worthy allies, all for the sake of a few chests of gold.

A scream of pain sounded from close by and he knew instantly from whose throat the sound was wrung. _Kíli._ Thorin struggled to right himself and saw his nephew fall. “ _My sweet, stupid boy,_ Dís always called him fondly when he'd done something spectacularly foolheaded. “ _More beard than sense, that one._ ”  
  
“ _And not much beard either,_ ” Fíli would reply slyly. Fíli was the only thing that stood between his fallen brother and uncle and the Azog the Defiler, who by rights should have been dead and rotting before the boy was even born. His sword was knocked from his hands by a mighty blow and it was not long before Fili joined his brother, bloodied and bruised.  
  
It could not be. They would not die like this. Not without taking their place as princes of the realm. It was too soon, they were _so_ young, so full of life, it could not be their Fate to die so soon. It was common among their people to face death in battle with pride, it was honorable be so slain. His thoughts were edged with blasphemy, but in that moment Thorin mind was cast back to the day his brother died and he reckoned, _There can be little honor in the death of one so young, for so unworthy a king._  
  
Azog laughed his terrible, gutteral laugh and turned his dead eyes to the fallen king. “ **Where is your wizard now?** ” he asked mockingly. “ **Your people die around you and you lie helpless. I will slaughter you all. I will drink your blood and that of your kin."**  
  
Against the pounding in his ears, Thorin rose and readied himself for one last charge. The King Under the Mountain raised his eyes and curled his lips in a defiant, bloody sneer as he regarded this most loathed enemy, but to his great astonishment, he saw the Pale Orc stumble. Its remaining hand rose in jerks and starts toward its head before it fell to its knees and landed heavily in the dirt. On its back he saw a dark-haired warrior, tall for one of their kind, pull a bloody axe from the back of the monstrous creature's head.  
  
The dwarf raised her - _her_ \- head and dark blue eyes deeper than sapphires locked onto his. It could not be...but there she was. Looking at Dís was like staring into a strange mirror. Their mother often said that if she didn't know better, she'd swear they were twins. His sister's black hair was plaited away from her face though the rest flowed down her back. On one arm she had a familiar battered wood and leather shield. Her mouth was set in a grim line above her beard which ended in two small braids below her chin. She was beautiful as ever she was, her noble bearing enhanced by the blood that splattered her face and coat and Thorin could not understand what miracle brought her to his side at this hour.  
  
She picked up Fíli's abandoned sword and tossed it to her brother who caught it deftly. “If you've done with your little rest, would you care to finish what you started?” she shouted over the din of battle, raising her axe. “Or shall I do it for you?”  
  
Thorin had enough strength in him to lumber to where the creature lay, half-dead already. Bracing himself against the still-twitching orc's sickly white back he raised the sword and severed his head from his body. An uncanny calm washed over him, whether from accomplishment or blood loss he could not say. Dís moved away from him, standing over her sons and cut through their enemies as a woodsman would so many tender saplings. She was magnificent in battle, as he always knew she would be given the chance. Her blade shone dully in the moonlight, slick with blood and her hair flew as she attacked and fended off attacks. And it was not just Dís who fought with the valiance of the warrior-women of old, he now saw.  
  
As he surveyed the battle scene, Thorin was sensible of a hundred other dwarf-women among the Men, Dwarves and Elves who comprised their strange army (whether a single hobbit fought among them, he did not know and sincerely hoped the halfling was safe away from the fray). There were many faces he recognized among their numbers and he, wounded and poised to strike at any black souls that might threaten his nephews as he was, he could not but marvel at them.

Sadly neglected by history they may have been, but Thorin remembered them all 'til the end of his days.  
  
There was Hervor, the wife of Glóin, who until this day, was most renowned for her great beauty. Even amid the helter-skelter about them one could not mistake her fine, stout form and wild mane of red hair as her flail crushed the skull of a warg rider.  
  
Freydís fought as well, sister of Dwalin and Balin who had the stature of the former and the temperament of the latter. She struck time and again with her warhammer, never pausing to draw breath, it seemed.  
  
Irpa was there, the mother of the brothers of Ri. She was the one who who braided the ribbon in her son Ori's hair that he'd worn even that day. Now she fought back to back with Dori her eldest, though his arms were tired and his eyes nearly blinded by sweat and blood.  
  
Unless he was much mistaken, Bombur's eldest daughter, younger than Kíli, a mere slip of a thing compared to her father let loose half a quiver of arrows into the necks and eyes of their enemies, her aim never erring.  
  
Nearby, a moan of pain made Thorin turn to his nephews lying on the ground. Kílii was stirring, his dark eyes clouded and confused, blinking up at the unmistakable figure of his mother with incomprehension. “Ama?” he croaked, sounded so much younger than he was, it nearly tore Thorin's stout heart in two.  
  
Dís smiled in relief and satisfaction as she neatly relieved an orc of its head with one mighty blow. “'Evening, dearest,” she said, almost cheerfully. “Now, give your brother a poke so I know he's still breathing, there's a good lad.”  
  
Fíli had breath enough to laugh, if one could call the wheezy chuckles he emitted laughter. “Is this a dream?” he asked, sensible enough to take stock of the dead or nearly-dead orcs and wargs about them, the war-cries of distinctly feminine voices filling the night.  
  
“If this is a dream of yours, it's a poor one,” Dís remarked carelessly. “Thorin,” she called over her shoulder. “Next time you've got it in your head to reclaim our homeland, do your level best not to start a war while you're at it, eh?”  
  
Thorin would have smiled at his sister, had he not recognized the deadly undercurrent to her words. “Duly noted,” he replied solemnly. He was quite certain that had his sister's attention not been otherwise occupied in this moment his own throat would be now against the razor-sharp blade of her axe. He was not too proud to admit that, in this case, his sister's censure was entirely justified.  
  
Beside him, Fíli was getting to his feet and, seeing his brother rise, Kíli tried to follow suit. Both mother and eldest son whipped their heads round and ordered, “Don't you dare!” in a tone so alike that Kili laughed as his brother had.  
  
“I was only winded,” he protested loudly. “My quiver is not yet empty!”  
  
“Mahal save us from the stubbornness of his children,” Thorin said gruffly, handing his nephew's weapon back to him as Fíli joined his mother in the fray.  
  
“You're a fine one to talk!” Dís shouted, removing a short sword from her belt and throwing it at her brother without missing a beat. “What do the Men say? That's the pot calling the kettle black.”  
  
Nearby Gloin and Hervor's voices sounded loudly over the crashing of metal and the slicing of flesh. “That's twenty-three!” Hervor cried gleefully.  
  
“I'm at fifty-seven,” her husband boasted proudly.  
  
“Not fair at all, you've had a head start! And unmounting a rider does not count for two!”  
  
Gloin smiled and shrugged as he did just that. “Fifty-nine,” he added, his expression smug beneath his beard. “I don't make the rules, my love, you'll just have to try harder.”

* * *

The arrival of this unexpected army breathed new life into the dwarrow-men. Even Dáin Ironfoot's troops seemed heartened by the sight of so many skilled ladies marching into battle, as in the legends. The dwarves fought with such might and vigor that orcs and wargs who stood against them fell in great, gasping heaps of blood, bile and sweat.  
  
The Men and Elves who fought in one of the last great battles of the Third Age did not, at first, grasp what history was being played out around them. Yes, it was fortuitous that another league of dwarven warriors arrived, but how they differed from those troops who marched West from the Iron Hills they could not say.  
  
They could be forgiven their oversight. The battle then being joined by an envoy of Eagles and one very large bear, there were certainly more wondrous sights abounding than a mere hundred women in armor.  
  
It was only after the battle, with the enemy beaten back, when they could take stock of the dead and wounded that they realized the husbands and wives falling into one another's arms, the mothers falling to their knees over the bodies of their sons and the sisters and brothers joyfully embracing did they realize who comprised this sixth army. Some of the Men of Lake-town would report home to their astonished wives and mothers that there were _women_ dwarves in the battle! Their womenfolk were similarly surprised to hear of these dwarf women for Men were so short-lived that none among them remembered the bustling city of Dale and in their trade with Dwarves they only ever saw males of their race. _Are you sure they were ladies?_ some of the young maids of Lake-town asked doubtfully. _Mightn't they be men with short beards?_  
  
In the records of that age, the Battle of the Five Armies was written as won by the combined might of Men, Elves and Dwarves fighting side-by-side for the first time in an age, with some footnotes of Eagles and a skin-changer whose origins are still not completely understood. Many names from that fateful day are still invoked as great heroes, you may have heard of them: The great elvenking, Thranduil, father of Legolas who himself would go on to enjoy some small renown sixty years hence. Bard, master of Lake-town, slayer of the dragon Smaug, later King of Dale who was given one fourteenth of the treasure hoard under the mountain. And, of course, Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, said to be the best and wisest ruler of Erebor in the Third Age. He was succeeded by his eldest nephew, also reputed to be a good king, but then, it is said that having golden hair is a sign of luck and prosperity in the dwarf race, so who could have doubted it?  
  
The Shieldmaidens of Erebor would go down just so, a legendary band of warriors such as Middle Earth would never see again. Why they were not named, one after the other for their courage and sacrifice is not known, but in the days immediately following the battle, there were so many wounded to look after that no one was thinking of glory and tribute, but of nursing the wounded and burying the dead. The faithful chronicler of the company of Thorin Oakenshield who might have taken care to make an exhaustive list of the battle participants, Ori of Ri, was laid up in bed with his mother and eldest brother (coaxing and force-feeding in turns), ladling beef broth down his throat.  
  
Mr. Bilbo Baggins, who later would write his own account of his travels in the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, wished in later years that he had asked the names of the ladies who arrived to save them all, but at the time was too timid to approach any of them. One of their number (who had never once been called 'timid' the whole of her life) took it upon herself to approach him.  
  
Once the battle was through, Bilbo hardly knew what to do with himself. He sported a bloody bandage on his head, but he hadn't _done_ anything, hadn't fought with his friends (former friends?), just hid himself away. Unseen. Just as Gandalf said when they started their journey. He was doing a very good job not being seen at the moment, or at least he thought so until a voice rang down the corridor, unmistakably calling for him.

“Halfling!”

He turned slowly and his eyes went up to see a tall Dwarf woman wearing a coat and trousers very like those he associated with Fili, Kili and Thorin. She had blue eyes, long dark hair and a short, neatly braided beard. Her skin was marred only by an ugly bruise above her right eye, but she seemed vigorous enough, jogging down the corridor to catch up with him. As she came closer, he could not help but notice she was very like Thorin. This would be Dís, then, mother to Thorin's sister-sons, heirs to the throne of Erebor. Since they were all three of them recuperating from wounds, Bilbo assumed she was given the task of sending him on his way.  
  
Shoulders slumping, his throat felt tight and he dropped his eyes to the floor where they settled on the toes of the dwarf-woman's boots. It was foolish to hope, but he desperately wanted to see Thorin before he left, to...well, he didn't know. Apologize? Bard, Gandalf and Thranduil claimed he did the right thing in taking the Arkenstone to convince Thorin to divide the treasure, but after the Dwarf and looked at him and spoken to him with such hatred, he thought it must not have been a very good thing after all. The stone was with Bard now, or perhaps Thranduil or Gandalf, he'd lost track. All he knew was that it was not with Thorin and if Thorin did not have the stone, Thorin certainly would not look upon him with anything but scorn.  
  
“I'll...sorry. Be going now. Yes?” the hobbit stammered, turning miserably away. He was stopped by a hand heavy on his shoulder. Was he going to be thrown out bodily, then? It would save him a walk, he supposed, and what were a few more bruises compared the wounds of the battle-scarred warriors.  
  
“No one is sending you away...Mr. Baggins, is it?” The voice that spoke to him was very kind, if a bit...tired sounding, perhaps. Yes, tired, but kind. Almost motherly and then Bilbo remembered that she _was_ a mother. How were Fíli and Kíli, he wondered? He knew they were wounded, but when he walked by the chambers of the sick, he thought he heard the sound of them laughing together. His mother used to say, when he'd done himself an injury as a young, foolish Tookish hobbit, that when a body was up to laughing it was on the road to perfect health.  
  
“You are welcome at Erebor, you may stay as long as you wish. Of course, if you wish to go, you may do that as well, but there is the matter of one-fourteenth of the mountain's gold to - ”  
  
“I don't want it!” Bilbo shouted, startling himself with the volume of his outburst. “I-I don't. Don't need it, certainly. I didn't do...anything, really...I...oh, and that business about the stone, I really am sorry, but it needed...to...I thought I was...”  
  
Dís held up a hand for silence before the hobbit apologized himself into a tizzy. “You may come and go as you please, take as much or as little as you like, but _before_ you do anything, I have a favor to beg of you.”  
  
Bilbo's eyes went wide with astonishment. “You have a favor to ask of _me_?”  
  
The dwarrow-woman grimaced, then sighed. “Of course, if you do not wish to perform it, I don't think I blame you. From what I heard, he acted...well, that's not important now. But Thorin would speak with you, if you would grant him an audience.”  
  
If he would grant Thorin an audience? The world was upside-down and inside-out the day a dwarf king would ask that an audience would be granted with a lowly hobbit. Dumbstruck, Biblo could only nod his ascent and, with her hand still firmly on his shoulder, Dís guided the hobbit to the room where her brother lay recovering.

  
How close this chamber had come to being a deathbed, Dís did not want to think on. Her brother was wounded before she arrived, she knew and he only got himself more bloodied as the battle went on. When that great bear plucked him from the battlefield, her heart stopped beating in her chest and she feared the worst. Kíli, her sweet, stupid, little love with the heart of pure gold (just like his father) told her not to worry. Something very like this happened before and if anything was wrong with Thorin their wizard Gandalf would fix it.

The old sooth-saying, _Never trust a wizard,_ rang in her head with the menace of horns of warning, but her dear boy looked so earnest that she tried to look soothed herself, only for his sake. Both he and his brother were driving their nursemaids and healers mad, trying to get up, complaining about what they were given to eat, making fools of themselves. Dís was naturally thrilled with their progress.  
  
Thorin was getting stronger in body as well, but not in mind. Something lay heavy upon his heart, his sister was confused at first. They'd taken back Erebor! Not a one in his company perished in the journey! This was a moment he'd been fixated on for a century now, what could possibly be the matter?  
  
It was Bofur, of all the original thirteen who told her he might know why Thorin was looking and acting so poorly. With his hat twisted in his hands, he told Dís that Thorin, acting beyond sense ( _gold-mad_ , he said and the phrase made her want to shiver) refused a gift of gold to Men and Elves and the halfling, acting to prevent war, took the Arkenstone and used it as a bargaining chip.  
  
Dís's first thought was admiration for how clever it was to use the stone that had all but driven her grandfather to die amid the flames and falling stone of his treasure room to sway Thorin's mind. Her second thought was horror that her beloved brother had nearly fallen prey to the same madness. And finally, her heart ached when she realized that, as fearful as it was to know what Thorin had done, how much worse for her noble brother to lay in bed with the full weight of his misdeeds on his conscience. Thorin was someone who wore his sins, real or imagined, heavy on his brow. It seemed cruel to make him suffer needlessly.  
  
So, she summoned the hobbit and frog-marched him to Thorin's bedchamber. He was such a little, frail thing. She could hardly imagine that he would have the nerve to take the Arkenstone out from under Thorin's nose. Or that he would outwit a dragon. Or stand down the Pale Orc defending her fallen brother (Bofur had quite gone on about the hobbit's merits, he seemed very fond of him). Then again only a few days prior, no one expected a motley band of women aged 68 to 325 to come charging into a fray, swords aloft to help win a victory in an army of Men, Elves and Dwarves (and eagles and wizards and...Man-Bear-Creatures). It was a strange world they lived in.  
  
She knocked as a courtesy and paused half a moment before opening the door and giving the halfling a small encouraging nudge over the threshold. The little tap nearly sent him sprawling, but he righted himself and looked at Thorin, lying bare-chested in bed, half swathed in bandages with an expression that was half-relief and half-alarm. Thorin looked no less surprised to see the hobbit before him and looked at his sister accusingly.  
  
“I believe you have something to say to Mr. Baggins,” Dís said casually, as though Thorin had a fence that needed mending and wanted to inquire whether or not Bilbo had a spare afternoon to help him.  
  
Thorin looked as if he might throttle her, but his sister only smiled at him indulgently and he could see he was defeated in this. “I would speak to our burglar, yes.”  
  
Something about the way Thorin said 'burglar' made Bilbo blush from the tips of his ears to the tops of his hairy toes. He looked at the floor again and felt another smack on his back and a softly murmured, “Go on, then,” in his ear. He looked up at the dwarven noblewoman and she gave him one of those reassuring mother-looks and he found just enough courage to approach Thorin's bed, though not enough to look the king in his face.

If he had, it might have comforted him for Thorin seemed to be at about as much of a loss as Bilbo was. “It seems I must apologize for the second time in our acquaintance,” he began, haltingly. “It is not a habit of mine.”  
  
Now Bilbo did raise his head, tears gathering in his eyes, though they did not fall. “I'm sorry!” he cried out. “You were right! I don't know anything, I'm just a stupid, cowardly hobbit - ”  
  
“No!” the dwarf replied sharply, his voice all command and there was the Thorin Oakenshield Bilbo knew so well. “No,” he repeated, more softly this time. “I was wrong. There is more in you of good than you know, child of the kindly West. Some courage and some wisdom, blended into measure. If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.”  
  
Bilbo did not know what to say. A single tear fell down his cheek and struck the bed where Thorin lay, disappearing into his blankets. “Balin said something to be that I'd forgotten until now, that night we were at your home.”  
  
The hobbit nodded, though he did not recollect much of that night at the moment. Food and song and how he wished he'd realized how good the dwarves were and how fond he would grow of them that night. He would have enjoyed it all more if he'd known at the beginning what he knew now – but it was too late for 'I wishes' and 'could-have-beens.' The war was over, the journey was ended, he'd done what he'd done and there was no taking anything back.  
  
“He said,” Thorin continued. “That I didn't need to go on. That I had a choice. The peaceful life we built for ourselves in the mountains was worth more than all the gold in Erebor.” He tilted his head up and his eyes were looking somewhere beyond Bilbo and over his head. The hobbit thought that what he was saying now, he said no only for his benefit, but for his sister's. “I did not believe him that night. I still believe our quest was just.”  
  
Dís moved as if to speak, but Thorin held up his hand for silence. “I still believe our quest was just. But I also know that there are some things that matter more than gold. Peace, perhaps, where there is no cause for quarrel. Friendship. Family. Loyalty. They have their own value and it cannot be mined out of the hills or molded by a hammer. I ask, good thief, that you forgive an old dwarf his blindness and that if we must part soon, we part as friends.”  
  
Bilbo was struck to his heart. “Of course!” he cried, reaching out impulsively and taking Thorin's hand. The last time the dwarf apologized to him, they embraced, but his wounds were still healing and Bilbo did not want to risk their tenuous bond by making the dwarf roar in pain. “You have my friendship for the rest of my life, and beyond, come to that. Forever. As long as you like.”  
  
The King Under the Mountain smiled slightly and held out his other hand to his sister. “And do you forgive me my foolishness? Unbrotherly was the game we played with you, excellent sister.”

Dís clasped his hand in both of hers and bent low to rest her forehead against her brother's. “There is nothing I have ever needed to forgive you for,” she said, closing her eyes and speaking softly. “You are a very fine brother and a very fine king. I followed you into battle last night and will do so evermore should you call me.”  
  
“And even if I do not call, I imagine.”  
  
“Especially if you do not call,” Dís agreed, bumping him (very lightly) on the head with affection. An enthusiastic cheer sounded from the back of the hall nearest the door.  
  
“Everyone's made up, then?” Fíli asked wryly, leaning against the doorframe with his thumbs tucked in his belt, looking pleased as the cat who caught the canary.  
  
“That's a relief!” Kíli exclaimed with a wide grin. “I was worried there'd be another battle right on the heels of the first one.”  
  
“It would hardly be a very long battle,” Fíli shook his head pityingly. “What with our uncle laid up in bed, Mam could have him defeated with one hand tied round her back.”  
  
“Then everyone would have to pick sides, there'd be such rows,” Kíli agreed. “Whose side would you be on?”  
  
“Mam's,” Fíli replied at once. “No sense backing a losing horse – even if he is our king.”

“And what are you doing out of bed, my little dwarflings?” their mother asked, arms folding across her chest. “Sneaking about where you aren't meant to be, you're as bad as goblins.”  
  
“We've got a message to deliver,” Fíli said, holding his hands up defensively.  
  
“Well, _Balin_ had a message to deliver,” Kíli corrected him.  
  
“But we thought we'd save him the trouble,” his brother finished. “Bard the Bowman's at the gate, he wants to speak to the king.”  
  
“Tell him the king's abed,” Dís said before Thorin could get a word in. “No – you both get back into bed, I'll tell him myself.” Leaving three healing dwarves and a hobbit in her wake, Dís strode the high-vaulted halls of Erebor, somehow knowing the way though she still had only the haziest memories of the mountain.  
  
The Man stood at the door, the Elvenking at his side. “What's your business?” Dís asked bluntly with an air about her that was not uncommon among those set upon by folks who went door-to-door plying their useless wears.  
  
The Elf spoke first. “We seek an audience with the King Under the Mountain,” he said imperiously, golden hair shimmering in the afternoon sunlight.  
  
“The King Under the Mountain is _resting_ at the moment,” Dís replied testily. “State your business or be gone with you.”  
  
The Man and Elf exchanged curious looks. Clearly, neither of them had dealt much with tired she-dwarves before. “We would speak to the King,” the Man said, as though repeating the same desire would yield a different result.  
  
It was as Dís suspected; no different than the mountain peddlers. “And I have said that he is not receiving visitors today.”  
  
“And who _are_ you?” the Man demanded. After what he had been put through these last weeks, his ire was understandable, but the Elf, recognizing the blue eyes and dark hair as hallmarks of Durin's folk was silent.  
  
Dís drew herself up to her full height, which was not inconsiderable for a dwarf. “I am Sigdís," she rarely used her full name, even to strangers, but she felt now was an appropriate time to break the habit. "Daughter of Thrain, Son of Thror, eldest dwarrow-woman of Durin's direct line. Anything you can say to King Thorin, you may say to me. Now, I will ask you once more before I set the guards on you: What. Is. Your. Business?”  
  
“After we fought alongside your people, we thought we would again inquire as to what our share of the treasure of the mountain might be, my Lady, ” the Elvenking replied.  
  
“For the people of Lake-town especially my...Lady,” the Man added. “We suffered much when the dragon Smaug fled the mountain and it was my bow that slew the Worm. We feel we are owed our due.”  
  
In that moment, faced with the haughty Elf and towering Man, Dís could see why her brother was so reluctant to give any of their gold over to them. But she saw the battlefield and the Men and Elves who fought there. It was nearly impossible for her to wrap her mind around, but she knew some of those gray-haired Men who fought and were slain were not even as old as her youngest boy. Men lived such short lives it was doubly honorable, she thought, that they would lay them down in battle. Elves...well, they were quite another matter.  
  
“That is a matter for the King, my brother, to decide,” Dís said, but continued as she saw the eyes of the Elf and Man harden. “I assure you, his mind is not what it was when you first approached him, I believe he will give you what you deserve.”  
  
“My Lady, with all due respect, my people need help _now_ ,” the Man said urgently. “Much of the gold in that hoard was taken from our grandsires in the city of Dale by the drake. I know the King was wounded in battle, but we cannot wait - ”  
  
“Take mine!” a voice piped up behind Dís and she turned to see the hobbit craning his neck back to look up at the Man imploringly. “Take it! I don't want it, you can have it!”  
  
“Have what?” Dís asked, cocking her head down to regard the hobbit curiously.  
  
“My share,” Bilbo explained. “My one-fourteenth, my share in the profits, it was in my contract. I claim it and...I give it to Bard. All of it.”  
  
The Man looked amazed. “Not _all_ of it, surely Master Hobbit?”

“All of it,” Bilbo repeated resolutely. “How on earth would I carry it all back? I don't think there's room in all the Shire to hold even one-one-hundredth of that gold, never mind one-fourteenth!” He folded his arms across his chest and drew himself up. “I claim it for myself and now I gift it to you. Erm. If that's alright,” he added, looking anxiously at Dís.  
  
His actions were beyond the ken of any dwarf to understand. Thorin's words came back to Dís in a rush. _If more of us valued food and cheer and song._ At the time she thought it was a pretty sentiment, but could not think of a single creature who would turn down such a bounty as Mr. Baggins was owed. For the second time that day, the hobbit surprised her. “As I said earlier,” she replied, her tone all astonishment, “your share is yours to do with as you wish.”  
  
“This is what I wish,” Bilbo said simply.  
  
The Bowman shook his head and the Elf King smiled. “Your heart is good, Bilbo Baggins,” he said. “You are wise as many of the most ancient of my people.”  
  
Bilbo smiled shyly and rocked on his feet. “I just haven't any need of all...that. And Bard's people have.”  
  
Bard shook his head at the hobbit. “Remarkable,” he said, half to himself. Then, lowering himself to the hobbit's height, he reached deep in his pocket and withdrew a shining stone that even with her dim memories of Erebor, Dís would know anywhere. “Take this, then. For you deserve _something_ , do you not, after such courage and generosity as you have shown.”  
  
But the hobbit was backing away, his hands raised. “No, no thank you. Thank you, no. That little gem has caused enough trouble for me.” Then, he looked at Dís. “Or, if I take it, I give it away as well. It is yours, rightfully. Your people mined it. Your grandfather loved it. It's rightfully yours, I just...borrowed it. For a while.”  
  
Again, astonished, Bard held the shining stone out to Dís, whose hand shook only slightly for the first time since the battle began as she felt the weight of it rest in her hands. The Heart of the Mountain. The Arkenstone. “I'll set it back in its throne,” she said quietly. There was one clear memory of her time in Erebor, this jewel shining so brilliantly above her grandfather's head. Maybe now when folk looked upon it, they would marvel, not at its beauty, but at the stories of those who fought so hard to reclaim the mountain and her people's rightful place within it.  
  
And, perhaps, when a certain King beheld its light, he would remember how dearly he paid for that little stone, would recall those who bled and died for it. So too he would remember how the cost might have been dearer still, were it not for the bold actions of those women who came, not for blood-lust or for gold, but for love of friends and family and home. All those things which do not shine, cannot be faceted and laid in precious metals, but are priceless all the same.


End file.
